These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And, like the baseless fabric of vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with sleep.
- (Prospero), William Shakespeare, The Tempest, 4.1
2 comments:
What talent that man had that his words can still enchant us after 400 years. He never ceases to remind me that the true home of language is not on the page, but in the mouth and in the ear, with the delight of it in the brain between them.
well said, Owl.
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